


you were right dear; i am weak and therefore fold

by canbreathe



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (crowley pretends that it isn't), (it's an adhd thing), Crowley (Good Omens) has ADHD, Crowley Created the Stars (Good Omens), Crowley Has Chronic Pain (Good Omens), Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Crowley Was Not Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Crowley has Trauma from the Fall (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley's Eyes (Good Omens), Crowley's Fall (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Crowley's Sunglasses (Good Omens), Depressed Crowley (Good Omens), Flashbacks, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Guilt, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mentioned Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), Past Abuse, Queerplatonic Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, a Lot of internalised stuff, crowley has a complicated relationship with literally everything in here other than his car, hell is also terrible, i refuse to believe he's abusing real sentient things, like it's very brief but it's there, references to religious indoctrination, the plants are clearly an outlet, well some of them, you'll need basic knowledge of english roads to get part of this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:54:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22990567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canbreathe/pseuds/canbreathe
Summary: (close my eyelids, hide my eyes (think of nothing else))crowley watches shooting stars on his own, and he lets himself think for the first time in a while. (crowley acknowledges later that it wasn't the best idea.)(get distracted, miss the space between)
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 56





	you were right dear; i am weak and therefore fold

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Small Hands](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/563821) by Keaton Henson. 
  * Inspired by [that tweet art where crowley sees falling stars for the first time](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/563827) by asphaloth. 



crowley watches the sky, the stars he put in it.  
he watches them fall down.

the first time it happened, she (it was a feminine year, long hair and 'womanly' fashion) cried more than he cares to admit. she felt like she was dying, utterly and entirely rejected by Her. She tore her work out of the sky, let it blaze and fall apart in the atmosphere above her.  
this time, he only aches and grows stiff and hates what the misnomer has come to represent. they aren't stars, only falling asteroids, but it still hurts somewhere, deep in a place he doesn't care to unearth and poke at.

Wish, the humans say, Make A Wish.

it's a particular brand of cruel that he never tries to inflict.

he pushes himself out of the warmth of the Bentley and the air outside seeps into and stiffens his joints. he's taking himself out on a ride, only he hasn't figured out where to yet. he figures he's pretty north of london by now, and there aren't any cars on this road. he doesn't know where he is, but it's definitely not any kind of motorway. he walks up to the fence of the farm he's parked beside, leans against it and looks up at the sky properly. there aren't any streetlights here (he truly is in the middle of nowhere), so there's barely light pollution to blocking out the stars.

he loves them so, so much. it's one of the few good things he had a part in making. he hasn't done much good, or really any at all. it's the reason he fell. (it's not. he fell because he couldn't keep his stupid mouth shut, asked one too many questions (a question) and hung out with the wrong crowd and was a failure, in more ways than one.) he's a being blocked out in thick permanent marker, an unscrubbable _this one's no good_.

his eyes are covered by sunglasses, even now. some assume it's because he hates his eyes (he does in some ways, especially on the days where all he can see in them is failure and stupidity and curiosity and keenness and- he doesn't like or want to think about those kinds of days.) but it's also (because he's far too vulnerable, hates how he unintentionally shows how he really feels through his eyes because that wasn't ever safe to do, not in hell) because the sun is bright. Very bright, and it hurts his eyes most days, and it's not worth the bother. it's the reason why his flat is dark, except for his plant room.  
he does love his plants, he really does. it just so happens that they are rather useful tools for venting out his anger at many things: hell and heaven and himself. (they shake when he yells, and he feels Right and Bad, which is _Good_ , and a part of him feels guilty for pouring his misery onto them and another knows that the plants only shake because he expects them to do so, when he screams at them.)

crowley doesn't really hate himself, per say. it's more that he has a temper, a royally fiery one, and it just so happens that he turns it on himself by accident sometimes. he doesn't like when it happens, but it can't be helped.  
after armageddon.. not he spent hours screaming at the top of his lungs in the suddenly sound proofed plant room.  
still, despite his precautions, when he came out Aziraphale looked at him in a way that was vaguely haunted. (in that moment, he really did hate himself. he hates the terror he hides deep in himself, and how it floods his entire being when Aziraphale looks at him in ways he doesn't understand, in ways like being curious and wondering if this should carry on and wondering if now is the time to give up (he's lying to himself, being over-dramatic. he doesn't like how he does that either, but sometimes he spirals and just can't _stop_ ). crowley doesn't know if he's worth the effort of keeping up with, when to him one moment is tender and scheming and in the next he's marching into flame).

he picks at the splinters on the fence. it's probably not a good idea for crowley to keep letting himself think, letting himself continue down this train of thought, but he doesn't what else he can do. he's not ready to leave just yet.  
(he's so clueless sometimes, not knowing the consequences of what he does: a nobody angel asking questions and becoming a nobody-er demon, sleeping for a century because he asked for something, saving the world one day and being dragged to someone else's execution the next.  
it's why he didn't tell Aziraphale about Heaven, after he laughed about his brief stint in Hell. crowley didn't have the heart to.  
Aziraphale's barely able to work through all the shit heaven put into his head. he tries his very very hardest and by now he's entirely stopped implying that crowley is Evil and Awful because he's a Demon, and even now he still works on stopping himself from doing the rest of the little Things but still just doing this is so _difficult_ for him and-  
he doesn't want to force another person through that when they aren't Ready; figuring out that shit isn't what it's all cracked up to be, that your superiors can and will be bad people (in his case he thinks it was probably naive to assume anything else, but that's just him. accepting it's not your fault is something that happens to other people, crowley thinks.) and they won't always have your best interests at heart.

(he'd put himself through it again though. fight through it, push himself over and over if it gave him the clarity he had to have, the kind Aziraphale only just didn't lack enough of to destroy all of them.)  
and he can't put Aziraphale through that, not when he doesn't want to be yet. he has to find it out for himself. crowley has to let him deal with that. let him sort it out. whatever words fit better. crowley has never been able to tell what sounds right, when his mind leaps from idea to idea at a million miles a moment, when dragging himself back through his thought process is like swimming through molasses. it's disorientating and he gets stuck and it's _impossible_. )

it's a Very complicated situation, and his hands twitch at the thought. he doesn't like to dwell on it, much or a little or at all.

crowley has other things to do. other things like lay around all day and deal with the fact his joints (especially his hips. fuck hips, they're terrible.) still try to kill him on a daily basis and make sure his plants are perfect and listen to Aziraphale read or ramble or chatter while crowley sits by his side. he definitely isn't bored out of his mind (he feels guilty for feeling so mind-numbingly bored through it all, but he can't help it. it's just the way he's wired: without anything to do he takes dumb risks like driving deep into the night with something that would be offended if he called it a plan) and he certainly isn't trying to avoid how his brain is begging to let him have a breakdown, as the asteroids above him smoulder into blazing ash, screaming to let him have a breakdown just this once (it's not just once: it's been many, many many times, and he isn't sure if he can count all of them).

mostly, crowley is just _tired_.  
_tired_ is somewhere between dying and starving to death, exhausted to the bone and crumpling beneath the Pressure of being perfect and conspiratorial all day long, trying to not be too Good but not too Terrible. (kids were always off limits, to him, even if he did think about swinging around the then-Antichrist's baskets and letting go of him. that wasn't his proudest moment.) he feels torn out, unbelievably empty. he's tired of so many things.

crowley is _tired_ , but he's also terrified. terrified of people seeing things he doesn't want them to see, terrified of being deemed useless and terrified of Aziraphale giving up on him ( _you go too fast for me_ means many many things, and it means Aziraphale wants him in some capacity (and crowley knows he does: a quick kiss as they left the Ritz, a night of discussing what they each wanted and finding out it wasn't much more than what they already had) but also that crowley flicks between wanting something that could kill him and gratitude far too fast for someone like Aziraphale, a person who nearly got the world ended because he couldn't change fast enough. it's a horrible thing to say about him, about anyone, but the worst part is that it's _true_ ).  
Aziraphale has plenty reason to give up on crowley, he knows. it's selfish. it's very, very selfish to be worried (petrified) of that and _still_ , crowley can't stop being scared of it.  
he likes (he _has_ to, he doesn't have a choice here) pretending he's suave and cool and not a complete disaster. it's a fun ( _unbearable_ , because he doesn't know when it'll fall, when he'll fail and fall through the gaps his brain ever so helpfully carves out for him) balancing act.

the moon is barely there, a sliver of a crescent in the sky, and it blurs. crowley doesn't understand why, and-  
he tastes salt at the edges of his lips, and it makes sense. crowley shudders under the weight of it, under getting it Right and making sure it's Wrong enough for him to count as something Bad and  
his shoulders hunch, because the noise of the wind is drowned out by the wheezing static in his ears, and he can't get it to stop stop _stop_ -  
he yanks at his hair and sobs hard, under the falling sky (its a familiar scene) and he muffles a scream by biting into his hand because he can't be too loud, and he can't be seen like this, he has to get it done and over with as fast as possible and there isn't time or space or a place to do this safely. he heaves and he closes his eyes, because the sky blurs above him and he can't stand it. it's so much like falling, unable to see clearly and he smacks his arm off something wooden sounding and breaks it as he clatters to the ground. his joints seize like they always did, even before falling, hes always been broken and he hisses against the familiar aching and then chokes on another sob as he curls up into a ball. hes boiling and he cant _breathe_ , he claws at his wrists and they feel slick and it smells-  
he gasps, and the air tastes clean, not like london, not stale, and it smells like iron, instead of sulphur.

he laughs and the sound is reedy and high and broken.  
he's on the ground, next to some random farm whose fence he's broken. he's in england, a real place, not diving into a pool of sulphur and he's crying. (having a breakdown might be a better word for it, some part of him thinks, and he throttles it.)  
judging by how his arms burn and the smell, he's also injured himself.  
the knowledge empties him more than anything else has ever managed to (and some very, Very old part of him, untouched for so so long mumbles something about kenosis, even though it isn't actually accurate), and he lets himself assess the damage. it's broken skin and deepish scratches, and it'll be a bitch for the next few days, if experience has taught him anything.  
experience. god- satan- fuck. fucking hell, he's fucked up.  
but. but, at the end of the day, it's not not new: he's realised it a few hundred times before.  
it's nothing new.

like so many times before, he picks himself up. he's on his own, but if there was anyone else here he wouldn't be safe. (some corner of him whispers about an angel who would make sure he was and he tears at it frantically, because he can't confront _that_ , not now. he's too empty and broken and _tired_ to grasp the gravity of the idea.)  
his joints protest, but he tells them to shut the fuck up and they respond in a way that could barely pass for reluctant cooperation. he takes the little he can get (beggars can't be choosers, a bitter fragment of him whispers. that isn't accurate either).  
the wind picks up, and in this state he can barely stand as it is. he doesn't get blown over but it's a near thing. crowley stumbles into the shelter of his Bentley, and he wipes roughly at his eyes and is careful to not accidentally smear blood on himself or his car. there aren't any more stars falling anymore. or asteroids. he doesn't think there's much of difference, at the end of the day, what they really are. what the humans (or God, croons a part of himself that has no problem being called cruel) have called them has more effect on him than what they really are.

he sees one more tumble down, in the corner of his eye. (Make A Wish, some terrible part of him mocks.  
despite himself, he closes his eyes and wishes that one day he and Aziraphale won't have to deal with this whole impending breakdown bullshit (well it's more already-breakdowned in crowley's case, but there'll be another one, and crowley can tell that for Aziraphale it's all slowly coming to a head. as horrible as it is, crowley hopes it ends up happening sooner rather than later, so it'll all be worked through faster, and he hopes because also he's bad at waiting, which is selfish but right now he doesn't have the energy to care.) and that one day all of them, from him and Aziraphale to the Them and the Pulsifers and to wherever the hell Shadwell and Tracy are now, they'll all figure it out. they have to, they must. they all will.)

he laughs, bitter and grating and wretched. God won't ever listen to what _he_ wants, of all people. (he was cast out so, so long ago now.) he turns the key and the Bentley hums. he plasters on a brittle grin as he starts driving down the road too fast and the radio sings at him (it's not a song he'd usually listen to, but he doesn't change the station. it's miserable enough for him, for one of These days)).

crowley blazes southbound down the a1 and despite himself, wonders if God has enough energy to care, or if She's also _tired_. of Her creations, Her planet, Her universe.  
tired out in the same way that She was of a stupid angel who didn't know not to ask questions, and didn't know not to talk to the wrong people (the only people crowley could find interesting).  
(if She really was _tired_ , crowley didn't know how much longer earth could last against another armageddon (crowley doesn't know how he's lasted so long himself).)

it's not a good thought.

he clamps down on it, chokes it down and turns the radio up so loud his ears ache, so loud that he doesn't have room to think any more. it's not a good idea (it never is).

**Author's Note:**

> as usual, this was inspired by a song (yes it's a breakup song, no i don't care because some of the lyrics work for crowley) some of the lyrics are bastardised but... it's just an inspiration sksksk. also yes it's kinda ooc and i overused brackets but. i'm venting and crowley has adhd so can you blame me here??  
> anyways i'm pretty happy with this!! (yeah it's miserable but. so is most of the stuff i post on here lmaooo)


End file.
